Shadow Spell (18 page)

She drank the coffee black rather than adding the good dose of cream that was her usual.

“I swear an oath, there's a time coming soon when I'll not step near a stove for a month.”

“You'll have earned it. I'm not talking to anyone in particular,” Meara said quickly as she scrubbed potatoes in the sink. “Just making some general observations.”

“Bloody Cabhan,” Branna muttered, as she pulled things from the fridge. “I'll kill him with my own hands, I swear
another
oath, for forcing me to see so many sunrises. The eggs are going scrambled, and whoever doesn't like it doesn't have to eat them.”

Wisely, Meara said nothing, but put the potatoes on the boil.

Muttering all the while, Branna put on sausage, started on the bacon, sliced bread from the loaf for toast.

Then downed more coffee.

“I want to see your side.”

Meara stopped herself from saying she was fine, simply lifted up her shirt.

Branna laid her fingers on it—how did she know the exact spot—probed for a moment. Meara felt heat slide in, and out again.

Then Branna met her eyes, just moved in and wrapped around her tight.

“It's healed perfectly. Damn it, Meara. Damn it.”

“Don't start now. I've had it from Connor already. You'd think I'd been gutted instead of getting a bit of a swipe.”

“What do you think he was aiming for if not your guts?” But Branna stepped back, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Breathed deep before she dropped them again.

“All right then. Let's get this bloody breakfast on. Connor Sean Michael O'Dwyer! Get your arse down here and do something with this breakfast besides eat it.”

As he appeared seconds later, he'd obviously been waiting for her to settle. “Whatever you like. I can do the eggs.”

“You'll not touch them. Set the table as it seems I'll be cooking for six the rest of my life. And when you're done with that, you can start on the toast.”

The potatoes were frying when the others arrived.

“You're all right?” Iona went straight to Meara. “You're sure?”

“I am. More than all right as I'm bristling with energy from whatever potion they gave me.”

“Let me see it.” Fin nudged Iona aside.

“Am I going to have to lift my shirt for everyone?” But she did so, frowning a bit as Fin laid his hand on her. “Branna's already had a poke at me.”

“He's my blood. If there's even a trace of him, I'll know. And there's none.” Gently, Fin drew her shirt into place again. “I wouldn't have you hurt,
mo deirfiúr
.”

“I know it. Sure there was a moment, and I wouldn't care to repeat it, but the rest? It was a fascination. You went with Iona once,” she said to Boyle.

“I did, so I know the sensation. Like dreaming but more like walking, talking, doing while you dream. It makes you a bit light-headed.”

“You should sit,” Iona decided. “Just sit down. I'll help Branna finish breakfast.”

“You'll not,” Branna said definitely. “Boyle, you're the only one of the lot who doesn't have ham hands in the kitchen. Scramble up the eggs, will you, as I've nearly finished the rest.”

He went over to the stove beside her, poured the beaten eggs from the bowl into a skillet where she'd melted butter.

“All right then?” he asked.

Branna leaned against him a moment. “I will be.”

She turned the heat off under the potatoes, began to scoop them out with a slotted tool onto paper towels to drain. “Why didn't I feel any of it?” she wondered. “I slept straight through it all, never knowing a thing.”

“Why didn't I, or Iona?” Fin countered from behind her. “It wasn't our dream; we didn't have a part in it.”

“I was right in the same house, only just down the hall. I should've sensed something.”

“I can see as you're the center of this world how you're deserving a piece of all of it.”

When she rounded on him, eyes flashing, narrowed, Iona stepped up. “Stop it, just stop it, both of you. You're each blaming yourselves, and that's stupid. Neither of you is responsible. The only one who is, is Cabhan, so knock it off. My blood, my brother,” she added before the pair of them could speak. “Blah, blah, blah. So what? We're all in this. Why don't we find out exactly what happened before we start dividing up the blame?”

“You're marrying a bossy woman,
mo dearthair
,” Fin said to Boyle. “And a sensible one. Sit, Iona, and Meara as well. I'll get your coffee.”

Iona sat, folded her hands neatly on the table. “That would be very nice.”

“Don't bleed it out,” Meara warned, and joined her.

At Branna's direction, Boyle piled eggs on the platter with the sausage, bacon, potatoes, fried tomatoes, and black pudding.

He carted it to the table while Fin served the coffee and Connor poured out juice.

“Take us through it,” Fin told Connor.

“It started as they do—as if you're fully awake and aware and somewhere else all at once. In Clare we were, though I didn't know it at first. In Clare, and in Eamon's time.”

He wound through the story as they all served themselves from the huge platter.

“A hart?” Branna interrupted. “Was it real, or did you bring it into it?”

“I wouldn't have thought of it. If I'd wanted a guide, I'd have pulled in Roibeard. It was a massive buck, and magnificent. Regal, and with a hide more gold than brown.”

“Blue eyes,” Meara added.

“You're right. They were. Bold and blue, like Eamon's, come to think of it.”

“Or his father's,” Branna pointed out. “In Sorcha's book she writes her son has his father's eyes, his coloring.”

“You think it was Daithi,” Connor considered, “or representing him. He might be given that form to be near his children, protect them as best he can.”

“I hope it's true,” Iona said quietly. “He was killed riding home to protect them.”

“The hart that might have been Daithi's spirit guided us toward the light, and the light was Eamon. Three years in his time since we last met. He was taller, and his face fined down as it does when you're passing out of childhood. He's a handsome lad.”

Now he grinned at Meara.

“He'd say that, as I told him they favor each other. Different coloring to be sure, but you'd know they're kin.”

“He thought Meara was Aine—a gypsy,” Connor explained. “One who'd passed through some time before, and told him they'd see home again.”

“That's interesting. You have gypsy in your heritage,” Iona pointed out.

“I do.”

“And Fin named the filly he chose for Alastar Aine.”

“I thought of that, and take it doesn't mean I resemble a horse.”

“Of great beauty and spirit,” Fin pointed out. “The name was hers—I never considered another. It was who she was the moment I saw her. Sure it's interesting, the connections, the overlaps.”

“It's that I felt nothing while we talked, there outside the cottage. Nor did he,” Connor considered. “We asked after family. I told him of the shadow spell. And it was when he asked if we'd come inside that it happened. One minute I felt nothing, then I felt him there. Just there an instant before the wolf leaped out of the air. And he felt it as well.”

“You spun around together, like one person,” Meara added. “It was all so fast. Connor pushed me back behind him, but it wasn't me, it was the boy, he wanted.”

“And so she pushed Eamon aside, exposed herself, and swung the sword. Not even a second, no time to throw out a block of any kind. He rammed her full, clawed her. Her blood and his in the air. The hound charged. Eamon and I joined, and the girls rushed out. It was they who threw a block, stopping me from rushing forward, throwing what they had at him, so it was me who joined with them as there was nothing else to do in those few seconds. What we had was enough to give him pain, with Kathel, Roibeard, and Alastar going at him along with us. He screamed like a girl.”

“Hey!”

He managed a grin at Iona. “No offense meant. Between us and Kathel, Alastar's hooves and Roibeard's talons, he went as he'd come. Gone, vanished, leaving only the stench of hell behind him. And Meara bleeding on the ground. And not two minutes, when I look back calm, not two minutes between.”

“They've all been short, haven't they? Something to consider,” Branna said. “It may be he only has enough power for those short bursts with this spell.”

“For now,” Fin added.

“For now is what we have. He hitched onto Connor's dream, slithered into it to try to get the boy—or one of the sisters if they'd greeted you, Connor. He can't get into the house, but into a dream, once you've moved out of its protection . . . I can see this. He can't get to them in that time, in that place, but could link to the dream to go there.”

“Where the boy would've been vulnerable,” Fin added, “in the half world of active dreaming. Then Cabhan waits on the edges of it, waits to attack—until you turn your back.”

“Bloody coward,” Boyle muttered.

“You said Meara spilled his blood. Where's your sword?” Branna demanded.

“At home. I never brought it here. 'Twas just in my hand in the dream.”

“I'll go get it,” Fin said. “Where do you have it?”

“It's on the shelf in the closet in my bedroom. I'll get you the key to the flat.” When he only smiled, she sat back again. “Which you don't need at all, do you? Which is a thought that never occurred to me. Any of the four of you could walk right in as you please.”

“I'll bring it. It won't take but a few moments.”

“I appreciate the respect, as you know I don't approve of taking the easy way when a bit of effort and time does the job. But.” Branna sighed. “We're beyond that, and it's foolish for you to drive into the village and back.”

Fin merely nodded. He lifted his hand, and in a flash held Meara's sword.

Meara jolted, then laughed a little. “Well, that's brilliant, and it's so rare to see any of you do that sort of thing, I sometimes forget you can.”

“Fin's a bit freer with it than Branna,” Boyle pointed out.

“We all don't have the same boundaries.” Fin turned the sword. “There's blood on it, and fresh enough.”

“I won't have blood or swords at my table.” Branna rose, took it from him. “It's enough to work with. I still have some from the solstice. But as you said, this is fresh—and it's from him when he was wounded during a shadow spell.”

“I'll come back, work with you as soon as I can get away,” Connor told her.

“So will I,” Iona added. “We're really busy this morning, but I think my bosses might give me some flex time this afternoon.”

Boyle ran a hand over Iona's cap of hair. “They might be persuaded. I'll bring Meara back as well if you can use us. We can bring food if nothing else.”

“It's quite a bit else.” Branna continued to study the sword. “As there isn't enough of the fancy French stew to go full around a second time.”

“We'll see to that then, Meara and myself, and come back around as soon as we can close things up at the stables. I'll send Iona off soon as I can.”

“I'll come get her,” Connor said. “I think we're back to no one wandering around on their own, at least for a bit. I can juggle the scheduling and be off by three if that suits.”

“Well enough.”

“I'll stay now.” There was a beat of silence as Fin spoke. “If
that
suits.”

“It does.” Branna lowered the sword. “The lot of you can put my kitchen back to rights. I'll be in the workshop when you're done,” she said to Fin, and walked out.

13

M
EARA SPENT MOST OF HER NEXT FREE DAY AT HER
mother's helping with the last of the packing up for what they were all calling The Long Visit. And as packing required making decisions—what should be taken, what should be left behind, what might be given away or simply tossed in the bin—Meara spent most of her free day with a throbbing headache.

Decisions, and Meara knew it well, put Colleen Quinn in a state of dithering anxiety. The simple choice of whether to take her trio of pampered African Violets nearly brought her to tears.

“Well, of course you'll take them.” Meara struggled to find balance on a thin midway line between good cheer and firmness.

“If I leave them, you and Donal will have the bother of watering and feeding them, and if you forget . . .”

“I can promise not to forget.” Because she'd take them straight to Branna, who'd know how to tend them. “But you should have them with you.”

“Maureen might not want them in her house.”

“Now why wouldn't Maureen want them?” Teetering on that thin line, Meara pasted a determined smile on her face as she lifted one of the fuzzy-leafed plants, pregnant with purple blooms. “They're lovely.”

“Well, it's
her
house, isn't it?”

“And you're her mother, and they're your plants.”

Decision made—by God—Meara set them carefully in boxes she'd begged off the market.

“Oh, but—”

“They'll ride safe in here.”
Seven times seven is—bugger it—forty-nine.
“And haven't you said plants are living things, and how they respond to music and conversation and affection? They'd miss you and likely wilt, however careful I was with them.”

Inspired, Meara sang “On the Road Again” as she tucked balled paper around the pots. At least that got a glimmer of a smile from Colleen.

“You've such a beautiful singing voice.”

“I got it from my mother, didn't I?”

“Your father has a fine, strong voice as well.”

“Hmm” was Meara's response to that as she multiplied in her head. “Well now, you'll want some of your photos, won't you, to put around your room.”

“Oh.” Colleen immediately linked her fingers together as she did when she didn't know whether to turn left or right. “I'm not sure, and how would I choose which. And—”

“I'll choose, then it'll be a nice surprise for you when you unpack. You know, I could do with some tea.”

“Oh. I'll make some.”

“That would be grand.” And provide five minutes of peace.

With Colleen in the kitchen, Meara quickly snatched framed photos—captured moments of the past, of her childhood, of her siblings, and, though it didn't sit particularly well, of her parents together.

She studied one of her parents, smiling out with the lush gardens of the big house they'd once had surrounding them. A handsome face, she thought, studying her father. A fine, strapping man with all the charm in the world.

And no spine whatsoever.

She wrapped the photo to protect the glass of the frame, tucked it in the box. She might be of the opinion her mother would be better off without the constant reminder of what had been, but it wasn't her life to live.

And that life, right at the moment, fit into two suitcases, a shoulder tote, and three market boxes.

There would be more if the move became permanent—a word Colleen wasn't ready to hear. More packing to do, but much more than that, Meara was sure, more life to be lived.

Considering the job done—or nearly enough—she went back to the kitchen. And found her mother sitting at the tiny table, weeping quietly into her hands.

“Ah, Ma.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I haven't made the tea. I feel at sea, Meara. I've lived in Cong and hereabouts all my life. And now . . .”

“It's not far. You'll not be far.” Sitting, Meara took her hands. “Not even a full hour away.”

Colleen looked up, tearfully. “But I won't see you or Donal as I do.”

“It's just a visit, Ma.”

“I may never come back here. It's what you're all thinking for me.”

With little choice, Meara shouldered the guilt. “It's what we're all thinking you'll want once you're there a little while. If you stay in Galway with Maureen and Sean and the kids, we'll visit. Of course we will. And if you're not happy there, you'll come back here. Haven't I said I'll see the cottage is right here for you?”

“I hate this place. I hate everything about this place.”

Stunned, Meara opened her mouth, then shut it again without an idea what to say.

“No, no, that's not right, that's not true.” Rocking herself, Colleen pressed her hands to her face. “I love the gardens. I do. I love seeing them, front and back, and working in them. And I'm grateful for the cottage, for it's a sweet little place.”

Taking a tissue from her pocket, Colleen dabbed away the tears. “I'm grateful to Finbar Burke for renting it to me for far less than a fair price—and to you for paying it. And to Donal for staying with me so long. To all of you for seeing someone rang me every day to see how I was doing. For taking me on little holidays. I know you've all conspired so I'll move off to Galway with Maureen for my own good. I'm not altogether stupid.”

“You're not stupid at all.”

“I'm fifty-five years old, and I can't roast a joint of lamb.”

Because that brought on another spate of weeping, Meara tried another tact. “It's true enough you're a bloody terrible cook. When I'd come home from school and smell your pot roast cooking, I'd ask God what I'd done to deserve such punishment.”

Colleen goggled for a long minute, tears shimmering on her cheeks. Then she laughed. The sound was a bit wild, but it was a laugh all the same.

“My mother's worse.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Why do you think your grandda hired a cook? We'd have starved to death. And bless her, Maureen's not much better.”

“That's why they invented take-away.” Hoping to stem more weeping, Meara rose to put the kettle on. “I never knew you hated living here.”

“I don't. That was wrong and ungrateful. I've a roof over my head, and a garden I'm proud of. I've good neighbors, and you and Donal close. I've hated it's all I have—another's property my daughter pays to keep around me.”

“It's not all you have.” How blind had she been, Meara wondered, not to see how it would score her mother's pride to live in a rental her child paid for?

“It's only a place, Ma. Just a place. You have your children, your grandchildren, who love you enough to conspire for your happiness. You have yourself, a terrible cook, but a brilliant gardener. You'll be a boon to those grandchildren.”

“Will I?”

“Oh, you will. You'll be patient with them, and sincerely interested in their doings and their thoughts. It's different with a parent, isn't it? They have to consider constantly whether to say yes or no, now or later. They have to discipline and enforce as well as love and tend. You'll only have to love, and they'll soak all that up like sponges.”

“I do miss having them closer, having the time to spoil them.”

“So here's your chance.”

“What if Maureen objects to the spoiling?”

“Then I'm off to Galway to kick her arse.”

Colleen smiled again as Meara made the tea. “You've always been my warrior. So fierce and brave. I'm hoping I'll have grandchildren from you to spoil one day.”

“Ah well.”

“I've heard you and Connor O'Dwyer are seeing each other.”

“I've been seeing Connor O'Dwyer all my life.”

“Meara.”

No avoiding it, Meara thought, and brought the tea to the little table. “We're seeing each other.”

“I'm as fond of him as I can be. He's a fine man, and so handsome as well. A good heart and a kind nature. He comes to see me now and then, just to see how I'm faring, and to ask if there's any little thing he can do around the place.”

“I didn't know, but it's like him.”

“He has a way about him, and though I know the way of the world, I can't approve of . . . that is, the sex before marriage.”

Holy Mary, Meara prayed, have mercy and spare me from the sex talk.

“Understood.”

“I feel the same with Donal and Sharon, but . . . A man's a man, after all, and they'll want such things with or without Holy Matrimony.”

“As do women, Ma, and I hate to break the news to you, but I'm a woman grown.”

“Be that as it may,” Colleen said primly, “you're still my daughter. And despite what the Church says on such matters, I'll hope you'll have a care.”

“You can rest easy there.”

“I'll rest easy when you're happy and married and starting a family in a home of your own. I'm as fond of Connor as I can be, as I said, but it's a fact he's an eye for the ladies. So have a care, Meara.”

When she heard the front door open, Meara offered desperate thanks. “And here's Donal set to take you to Galway,” she said brightly. “I'll get another cup for his tea.”

* * *

SHE THOUGHT TO GO HOME, STARE AT THE WALLS UNTIL SHE
felt less frazzled and guilty and generally out of sorts. And ended up driving straight to Branna's.

The minute she'd dashed into the workshop, she saw she'd made a mistake.

Branna and Fin stood together at the big work counter, their hands poised over a silver bowl. Whatever brew it contained glowed, a hard orange light that swirled up a thin column of smoke.

Branna held up a finger of her free hand, a signal to wait.

“Yours and yours and me and mine, life and death together twine. Blood and tears cast and shed mixed together thick and red. Fire and smoke will bubble true and seal your fate with this brew.”

It bubbled up, frothed over, a virulent orange.

“Damn it!” Branna stepped back, fisted her hands on her hips. “It's still not right. It should go red, bloodred. Murderous red, and thick. We're still missing something.”

“It's damn well not my blood,” Fin said. “I've given you a liter already.”

“A few drops is all, don't be such a baby.” Obviously frustrated, Branna shoved at the hair she'd bundled on top of her head. “I've taken mine and Connor's and Iona's as well, haven't I?”

“And there's three of you to my one.”

“Plus what we've used from the vial we have of his from the solstice, and what we're using from the sword.”

“You can have mine if you need it,” Meara offered. “Otherwise it seems I'm just in the way.”

“You're not. It might be we can use another eye, another brain on this. But we're having a break so I can think on this,” Branna decided. “We'll have some tea.”

“You're upset,” Fin said to Meara as Branna mopped up the counter. “You saw your mother off to Galway today.”

“Just a bit ago, yes, and with much of the weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

“I'm sorry.” Immediately Branna came around the counter, rubbed Meara's arm. “I was blocked off in my own frustrations and didn't give a thought to yours. It was hard.”

“In some ways more and in others less than I expected. But altogether exhausting.”

“I've things I could do and leave the two of you to talk.”

“No, don't go on my account. And this gives me the chance to talk to you about the rental.”

“It's nothing you need worry over. As I told you, I can hold it until she's decided what she wants to do. It's been hers near to ten years now.”

“It's good of you, Fin. I mean it.”

Saying nothing, Branna walked over to make the tea.

“I think she won't be back—not to live,” Meara said. “I think the change will boost her. The grandchildren, particularly the grandchildren, as she'll be living with some and closer to the rest. Added to it, Maureen's Sean will make a fuss over her, as he's always had a soft spot there. And the fact is, she's not happy on her own. She needs someone not just for conversation but direction, and Maureen will give her both.”

“Then stop feeling guilty about it,” Fin advised.

“I'm wading in it for a bit.” Doing just that, Meara pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She cried so, and said things I didn't know were in her mind or her heart. She's grateful to you, Fin, for the cottage, for the ridiculously low rent you've charged all these years—and I never thought she had any idea about the money at all. But she did, she's grateful, and so am I.”

“It's nothing, Meara.”

“It is, to her, to me. I couldn't have managed my own rent and hers if hers hadn't been cheaper than dirt even with Donal kicking in, and then there'd have been murder for certain. So you kept her alive and me out of prison, so you'll take the gratitude that's given.”